


Cottontail

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: F/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27772309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Fran camps with the party.
Relationships: Balthier/Fran (Ivalice Alliance)
Kudos: 27





	Cottontail

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XII or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The shallow basin before the Golmore Jungle is a pitiful place to sleep, but Fran’s seen worse in her time—spent lonely nights in dark caves and icy shelves and even _mines_ , full of the stench of artificial clothes and hume sweat. The imprints of heavy Imperial armour have barely faded from the earth, and her ears are always perked in case they return. The others seem to worry less, or at least not about closing their eyes out in the wild—they think the plains safer than the forest she used to call home. In a certain way, they’re right. In another, she’d rather face the feral coeurls and slithering malboros then camp where Imperial blood still stains the grass. But she isn’t their leader and isn’t precious about comfort. When they cluster down around the jungle’s doorstep, she sits with them. 

Vaan and Penelo drop like flies, curling up to sleep as soon as they’ve finished their rations. Ashe wanders a ways off and stares into nothing, seeing things even the Mist can’t speak of. Basch hunches over with his own demons, and Balthier stretches out along the dirt like he’s aboard the _Strahl_ in his quarters. He lies on his stomach, cheek resting on his arm, still in all his clothes and armour—pieces she would normally have the pleasure of removing one by one. Or she might just watch, busy with her own garment, while he stripped his shirt over his head and bent low to push down his boots. Then he would strut to his bunk like he owned the place, because he would, and if she were feeling so inclined, she might just go with him. 

Sometimes she misses those days. Other times, she knows this is better, because while it’s harder, they’re following a _purpose_ —no longer just two aimless lost souls. She would still leave if he did, but she would give him _that look_ , and he would know her mind on it: that she thinks their place is with this mismatched party. When she perches beside him, he looks up at her like he knows all her thoughts. He doesn’t, but he’s come closer than anyone else ever has. 

He murmurs, “How much for a backrub?” as though they haven’t shared the same coin purse since the day they met. 

Fran lobbies back, “More than you can afford.” Balthier smiles thinly but doesn’t laugh aloud like he might if they were alone. They’re not. So they both keep their voices hushed, so they can be as alone as they’re able. 

Their audience isn’t really looking. It still gives Fran the slightest pause before she lifts one hand, bringing it to rest over Balthier’s back. As soon as her palm presses down between his shoulder blades, he buries his face in his elbow, and only her superior ears let her catch the low moan he muffles into it. She can feel the tension in his back, knots built up over days. 

She starts to rub them out, digging in with her long nails right through the rigid fabric of his vest and the thinner cloth of his tunic. In the wrong moment, her claws are deadly, but he’s never shied away from her fiercer side. He leans into her touch like a pet cat in need of attention, and like usual, Fran gives into that preening. 

No other hume. She barely gives others the time of day. But this particular one has found a way under her skin, deep into the parts of her only the Woods should know. The sensual sounds he makes are gratifying, music to her ears, and she loves the way he squirms under her hands. 

She loves _feeling_ him under her greedy touch, and before she can stop herself, she has all ten fingers splayed across him, body fully arched over him, nose scrunched as she breathes him in. Her hands trail down to where a tail should be, that shallow hump in his lower back, the smooth dip before his taut rear. Most humes are ugly things, short and furless with beady, lying eyes, but her hume’s so very _pretty_. She’s always thought him beautiful. From the moment he first sauntered into her life, she wanted him. 

She’s had him so many times, and it hasn’t dulled the taste. She leans down over the back of his head and bends back his collar, leaving room to bite into his neck, teeth digging right down into the skin. Balthier hisses and tenses, but she can _feel_ his heart racing. Even when he lifts up enough to free his mouth, she doesn’t stop gnawing at him. He’ll recognize the behaviour, of course—she wants to mate _now_.

“Now?” he muses, reading her want and need so well. “When we have such a long day ahead? We will regret it come morning.”

Fran breaks away, laps up the little bit of blood that purples around his wound, and kisses to his ear to purr into it, “You will regret nothing.” He has very few of those in life, if any, and never _her_.

He doesn’t play coy any longer. “Correct as usual, my dear.” Then he’s lifting up, and she slinks away to make room. Ashe has turned back to them and catches her eye—Fran nods, hoping that will convey their intent better than Balthier’s slick tongue. They don’t need the others coming to look for them. 

Balthier doesn’t pay them any mind. He turns when Fran tugs him by the belt loop, taking her hume into the jungle to play.


End file.
